Wisdom of the child

I was not even one year-old

When my inquisitive nature

Dipped my li’l hand on fluid white

Burning all the baby cell to ruin.


Pathetic was my condition

With a massive dressing on

And baby child have no freedom

But this was the call for her to sum.


At an early age of three

Stole her father, the hero true

And her mother tried hard

Until the lesson of death she understood.


Forgetting her own pain

Over the loss of her husband

She was more concerned

To teach patiently her daughter, death pain.


And the time with my siblings

Never skip my mind ever

Because they were the real gems

That completed my life forever.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *